


Fixation

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After months of tension, Deacon and the Sole Survivor fall into bed together. Things don't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixation

She undresses, and there's something charmingly old-world about it. You don't undress for a wasteland fuck; Deacon hasn't been fully naked with anyone in _years_. But then, she's not just anyone and this isn't just a fuck. He has no idea _what_ this is, except that they're both going to regret it in the morning. He pushes the thought away and reaches for her; she shies away from his hands.

She unhooks her bra one-handed and slides the straps off her round shoulders. She's got full, heavy breasts and pale pink nipples, she bites her tongue and drops the bra on the floor. She undoes her belt and leans forward to pull her pants off, and Deacon watches the pendulum swing of her breasts. She's built solid, like a stone-age fertility idol: thick waist and soft belly, a crop of dark curls between her thick thighs.

His mouth goes dry; he wants to bury his face in those curls and drink deep of her. He wants to taste her, smell her, feel her skin under his hands, hear her moan when he pushes into her. He can _see_ her, but it's not enough to satisfy him. Trembling, half-mad with wonder, he reaches for her again.

This time, she doesn't pull away. She leans into his touch, wrapping her arms around his neck, her hair falling all around them in a dark curtain. "Hey."

Deacon swallows, hands sliding along the length of her back. Her skin is velvet under his wandering fingertips, she shivers when he traces her vertebrae. "Hey."

"I want to see you," she says, kneading the flesh at the base of his skull. "Will you undress for me?"

"Yeah," he says, and his tongue is heavy in his mouth. He cannot look away from her, she is magnetic, she is the sun and he is the pale and envious moon. He kisses her collarbone and leans back, she watches with hungry eyes while he pulls his shirt off over his head.

There is no reverence in her touch. Her hands are clumsy, ungentle against his throat, and she kisses him with raw desperation. She sucks on his tongue while he fumbles with his belt, and she is so _eager_. Her kiss tastes like vodka and stale cigarettes and old beer, like lust, and some unworthy part of him worries that this is all there is. He doesn't think he loves her, but he wants more than just sex from her; more than anything, he wants to belong to this woman. He devoted himself to the Railroad for lack of a better option and here she is, warm and vibrant in his lap, kissing him like that's all she cares about in the world, and that _terrifies_ him.

"Wait," he says, and she pulls back, laughing. Her eyes are dark, iris swallowed up by pupil, her cheeks are flushed. She grins, and the half-light does flattering things to the planes of her face. She looks feral, utterly unlike herself. He thinks of nereids, of the sidhe, of sirens and of Ulysses, lashed to the mast. "Help me with my pants."

She laughs again. "Help yourself. I want to watch."

Deacon swallows again, and thinks that there isn't a man alive who could refuse her. He undresses for her, pants sliding down over his bony hips, and there is nothing separating them any longer. Skin-to-skin, naked as pearls, pale skin practically glowing in the dark. She wraps her hand around his cock, the texture of her palm strange and unfamiliar, and he hisses.

She's suddenly shy. "Hey," she says again, hair falling in front of her face. "How's that?"

It's good, it's fine. Her hand is warm, and her touch is gentle, like it's been a while and she's afraid to hurt him. He's flacid in her hands, limp and soft even when she gives up and takes him into her mouth.

He runs his fingers through her hair. It curls naturally, but a week of road grit has robbed it of its shine. He closes his eyes and thinks of her in that first moment after she returned from the Institute, pink-cheeked and freshly scrubbed, her hair streaming behind her like a lion's mane.

"Deacon," she says, an irritated puff of breath against his naked thigh. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't know."

She runs her thumb across the sensitive head of his cock; he shivers but remains limp. "Relax," she says. "Let me take care of you."

He can only watch, miserable, as she kisses her way up his thigh and down from his navel, pink tongue darting out between thin lips to taste and tease. His face burns from the liquor or from his mounting frustration; he doesn't know. She is on top of him, utterly willing, and he cannot make himself hard for her.

Her touch remains gentle, but the stimulation becomes painful. Nearly thirty minutes and he gives up, takes her by the wrist and tugs her up to lay beside him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He kisses her cheek, she does not turn her head to catch his mouth with her own. Her playfulness has abated, leaving behind irritation and impatience, and she looks like herself once again. He combs his fingers through her hair, hating himself.

"I really wanted this." She trails her fingertips down his chest and he shivers, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips. He kisses the thin, pale skin on the inside of her wrist, daring to press his tongue against her fluttering pulse. Her skin tastes like sweat and grit, a strange sort of vinegary sweetness.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I- I wanted this, too." His mouth is dry, his head pounds. A hangover, without the fun of drunkenness. "For months, all I could think about was all the things I was going to do for you if I ever got you naked."

"Yeah?" she wriggles closer to him, soft skin pressing into him. He winds an arm around her waist, rubs circles into her back. "Tell me."

"You don't want to hear this," he says. "It's mostly just obscene and embarrassing."

"I like obscene," she breaths. She puts a hand on his cheek to scratch at his stubble with her blunt fingernails. "Come on, tell me."

Deacon takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. She's watching him, her eyes intent in the darkness, and it's too much to bear. He craves her presence, her proximity, her nakedness, but he cannot bear her scrutiny.

"Your thighs," he says, dizzily. "I wanted to lick my way up your thighs and eat your pussy. _God_ , I used to jerk off in the showers thinking about your thighs. Still do. You have magnificent thighs, I'd pay a thousand caps to watch you crush melons with them." She laughs, light and airy, but he's serious. "I mean it. Like _fuck_ , who even _has_ legs like that any more? Nobody. It's just you."

"What else? Tell me." She tugs sharply at the baby hairs at the base of his skull and white pinpricks of pain bloom in front of his eyes.

"I wanted to get you on your back," he says. "On the edge of a bed or something. I wanted to fuck you with your legs wrapped around my waist."

"Always my legs," she teases. "I'd say you've got a bit of a fixation, Deeks."

"Who wouldn't? I have a lot of thoughts about your legs." Emboldened, he slides his hand down her side, tracing the swell of her hip and the transition from soft, downy flesh to bristly muscle. "Other parts of you, too. Like your mouth. Always wanted my cock in it." He kisses her jaw, not daring to kiss her lips. That is an unearned pleasure; she will have to initiate.

She doesn't. She grins again, eyes half-lidded. "I thought about that, too," she says. "I like sucking dick. Never had a lot of practice." She doesn't touch him, she touches herself, fingers disappearing into her plump folds.

"Could change that," she whispers. "I'd expect you to return the favor, though."

"Of course," he says. "Already said I would. You could sit on my face." She gasps, hips rocking against her hand, and he brushes her hair back from her throat to expose her lovely collarbones. Deacon trails wet, open-mouthed kisses from her jaw, down her neck, to her breasts and collarbones, stubble scraping against her skin while his fingers dig into her meaty thigh. "Eat you out like that, all your juices running down my chin."

She _hmmms_ , eyes fluttering shut, and he takes that as encouragement.

"Really though, I just wanted _you_ ," he says. "Exactly like how I've got you now. Spread out, eyes shut, ready for anything. I wanted my mouth on your entire body. I want to spend an entire day just _touching_ you, learning you. Want to make you melt." He kisses her jaw, slow, lingering, his mouth hot against her skin. His free hand finds its way to her breasts, and he kneads her flesh, squeezing her pink nipple between his fingers while she masturbates to his voice, her lips open in a moan.

He squeezes her tit and calls her beautiful, she shudders and jerks against her hand. There is no gentleness in her touch, only a brutal sort of eroticism, fingers crashing over her clit while he describes his fantasies to her.

"I wanted you to touch me, too," he whispers. "Fingers in my ass, all of it."

"Do you like that?" she says. "Want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," he says, and she presses harder, touching herself with an intensity that seems painful. Deacon watches the frantic movement of her hands and fingers, peppers her shoulders and collarbones with open-mouthed kisses. He resists the urge to suck or bite, doesn't want to mark her skin. Seems too possessive, too permanent, when he still doesn't know what this is. "God, I thought about that more than anything. I want you to hold me down and fuck me. Just work me loose and use me."

"I could," she says, and there's a catch in her voice like she's on the edge. "Shove a cock in your ass. Fuck, watch someone else do it. Sit on your face while someone fucks you, not let you up until you'd gotten us both off." She bites her lip and looks up through her lashes at him, tilts her chin in a _go ahead_ way.

He kisses her bitten lips, and she sighs against his mouth, orgasming against her fingers. He holds her through it, whispering endearments against her sweat-soaked skin. She whimpers, hips twitching, spine curling, one leg hooking around Deacon's. In that moment, she clings to him, vulnerable in the afterglow.

This time, he initiates the kiss, unprompted. She turns her head away, and his lips brush her cheek. It feels like a gut-punch, like a knife in the back, and he hates himself for that. They do not belong to one another. Whatever this is, it isn't _that_.

But it hurts, that small rejection. Even naked in his arms, she maintains that last little bit of distance between them. She will consent to touching and being touched, but she will not kiss him unless she initiates. It's fair, and he will not attempt to cross that line again, but it _hurts_.

She does not want him in the same ways he wants her.


End file.
